BOOKS.
MAITLAND OF LETHINGTON.• MR. SKELTON has been fortunate enough to find a new hero for his work on Queen Mary and her times, a man whose import- ance no one is likely to underrate, yet whose polished presence has never yet been put so prominently forward by the historian, and whose character and position present a new point of view in a period which we should say had been discussed to death, were it not evident that there is always new material to be found, and that really not one question has been definitely settled. Hitherto, the alternative to Mary has been Knox, and the antagonism still rens so high that it is almost impossible for the partisan of one to do anything like justice to the other. We do not say that Mr. Skelton has attained a new position in this respect. The blemish of the book before us is his view of Knox, for whom he has little mercy, and to whose discredit he shows a great readiness to accept, if not without examination, at least with very little reference to authorities, every harmful sugges- tion. But this may possibly be modified as he goes on. And
• tirtgIrstlfrALetnt:gtc;i: Blsekwsed Scotlandeeloicta.sy Stuart. By John Skelton,
in the meantime we have here a most picturesque and delightful instalment of history in the highest sense of the word literary, fall of brilliant pictures of the time, and a realisation of all its national peculiarities, which help us to see the Scotland of Mary Stuart as perhaps we have never done before. Mr. Fronde's wonderful, but melodramatic and quite unscrupulous picture of Mary in England, is the nearest parallel. And Mr. Skelton, as far as picturesque conception goes, is no doubt a disciple of Mr. Fronde. But his preferences go all the other way, and his mind is less dominated, except, perhaps, in the case of Knox, by any foregone conclusions. Besides, a writer whose point of attack is the stern Reformer, a man always ready to hold his own and able to defend himself, occupies a much less objection- able position, even if he goes too far in his hostility, than that of a historian with a pen like a lancet, whose aim is to add a sharper pang to misfortune, and cut away any charitable veil which imagination or remorse could throw over a murdered woman,—even though,in her day, she might have been murderous too.
Mr. Skelton requires the greater part of this volume to put upon his canvas the Scotland of Mary Stuart, the scenery of his drama; and he has done it with great brilliancy and skill. The conditions of the poor, proud, struggling country, deter- mined at all hazards to preserve its independence, resuming with Henry VIII. the conflict which had in former days been settled by Bruce, resisting the English King's demands, even by the mouth of one of his partisans, with the assurance that "there is not so little a boy but he will hurl stones against it, and the wives will handle their distaffs, and the commons universally will rather die in it" than yield to Henry's preten- sions—is admirably set before us, with all its differences of race and civilisation. The hardy Highlanders have never received a description so flattering; their powers of endurance and frugality, their admirable discipline, both of mind and body, the hard life which kept all their faculties in constant tension, appear to us hare in a new light. The semi-savage condition, lightened by gleams of bravery, generosity, and faithfulness, which we have been wont to consider the best that could be said for them, does not satisfy the historian ; and certainly among the sons of the mist, whom he describes, the " Dougal creature" could never have found a place. Sir Walter Scott was the first to reveal the race to the world, and he wrought a transformation in all previous ideas on the subject,—but Mr. Skelton goes much farther than Sir Walter. It is the Borderers who are the caterans in his narrative, and his account of these hardy men-at- arms in the pastoral valleys, which were then as trackless as any Highland wilds, is full of stir and picturesque movement. The entire country opens before us, with its steady and settled centre, Fife and the Lothians, the seaboard towns upon the Firth in high prosperity (three hundred vessels in St. Andrews harbour— but could that be possible on such a dangerous coast, bristling with those long low reefs, and swept by fatal currents P), Edin- burgh upon her rock with her Maiden Castle, swarming with all the varieties of sturdy burghers and craftsmen, dominating the plains : and on either side a picturesque half-savagery, the Border with its steel caps and breastplates, the High- land hills rising into the mist. Nothing could be better than this historical landscape ; it is fall of instruction and enter- tainment. We do not say that it reads like a novel, but rather— would that a tenth of the novels we have to tackle read half as well !
It is a little surprising to find not only the exceptional figure of Maitland himself, but that of his father, Sir Richard Mait- land, in the midst of a society so primitive and highly coloured. Mr. Skelton on one occasion contrasts his hero with Knox as the Renaissance against the Reformation, a not very savoury description so far as the statesman is concerned. Old Sir Richard Maitland in his home at Lethington, however, without any visible trace of the ideas or morals of the Renaissance, is a cultivated and polished gentleman, with much leisure and quiet for refined occupations, even amid all the din of the sixteenth century :—
" Lethington was his favourite residence : he loved the quiet of the country. There be collected his poems: there he planted, there he gardened. The apple still prized as the ' Lethington' was, it is said, introduced by him from abroad. A contemporary poet has painted with cordial sympathy and no inconsiderable skill the char- acteristic attractions of the old keep. Let Virgil praise Mantua, Lucan Cordoba; but the excellence of Lethington, its massive tower, its walls exceeding strong, shall be his theme. He can keep silence no longer, he mast put forth his mind,' as be says with natural qutintness. How delightful it is to gaze from the wide roof over
fair fields and woods. To see Pbo3bus rise from the Lammermuir, or at nightfall ' to hear the bumming of the air and pleasant even's sound.' The arbours, the flower-beds, the orchard green, the alleys fair beith braid and long,' which he praises are still preserved, but the lands have passed away from men of ' Maitland blude.'"
In this noble place, the old knight grew blind and feeble. But still he continued to hold his place on the Bench, where be bad served, as James VI. says, "our glandeire, gudsire, grandam,
mother, and ourself;" and when he retired to his home, gathered together the traditions of the country-side, and wrote a history of the Setons, as well as a great deal of miscellaneous verse :—
" The Maitland MSS. at Cambridge," says Mr. Skelton," are worth much more than their weight in gold, are, in fact, invaluable ; for, had they not been preserved, much of the early poetry of Scotland would have been irretrievably lost. Mary Maitland was his favourite amanuensis: she wrote with admirable distinctness and legibility, besides being a sort of a poet herself. And thus—father and daughter seated at the window of the great Hall which looks out on the Lammermuir—months and possibly years, were pleasantly and pro- fitably spent."
This pretty picture is a sort of oasis in the desert, revealing how, amid the greatest tumults, life serious and tranquil, even sweet, can always find some gentle refuge in which to flow on. The son of this mild old Judge was, however, a very different man. All the abuse that baffled politicians, suspicious friends, and determined antagonists can pour upon his heed has been poured upon him. He is the "Mitchell Wylie "—meaning Machiavelli, a delightful travesty—of Scotland. He is a man that "can wile the bird off the tree." He is the moat skilful master of mental fence and statecraft, "subtle to draw out the secrets of every man's heart." Mr. Skelton does not at first, at least, commit himself to his hero. "Maitland," he says, "it need not be concealed, is one of the difficulties of the historian; his record is not clean. We are in the debateable land. The temptation in such cases rather to cut than to untie the ravelled knot is often irresistible." But this, it is evident, Mr. Skelton has no mind to do. He sets to work to elucidate this moral puzzle with the zest at once of a story-teller and a philosopher. Bat it is not difficult to see that this subtle diplomatist, this man of honeyed tongue and many-sided aspects, has taken the historian's fancy. There is more interest in evolving from all its twists and turns such thread of higher motive and purpose as were really in him, than there is in dealing with the straight- forward minds of brutish barons or vehement preachers. Maitland is of more delicate mettle, and to comprehend and explain him is worthy the powers of the finest analyst. Something of the same kind may be said of Maitland's Queen, that fascinating problem whom no historian has yet suc- ceeded in explaining. Mr. Skelton's chapter entitled " Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor," is an extremely clever collection of contemporary opinions in favour of Mary, to which it is almost impossible for any unbiassed reader to refuse his attention. The manner in which she impressed her contemporaries at the beginning of her career, is indeed worthy of every attention, and furnishes a solid body of testimony in her favour. The future volumes will show how far Mary and Mary's secretary merited the strangely different opinions which they called forth from friends and foes.
We do not think, as we have already indicated, that Mr. Skelton's treatment of John Knox is either just or fair. That he had all the faults of temper and manner that can be supposed, we might even allow, without setting him down as the red- eyed demagogue, blazing with vehemence and fury, whom Mr. Skelton describes. And his accusation against the Reformers in respect to the destruction of the churches defeats itself by the thoroughness of the supposed process. The historian proves a great deal too much. St. John's Church, in Perth, is destroyed while the Reformers are at dinner. Before they returned from that meal, "the business was finished." In a day or two, at St. Andrews the ecclesiastical buildings became ruins. All this, we take leave to think, is impossible. That the altars were wrecked there is no question ; that the churches could have been destroyed seems physically impossible. We must add, however, that though we do not believe in the possibility of this destruction, the more subtle revolution in popular sentiment which led to the devastation of Scotland in this respect is no doubt true. "The stones may not have been actually dislodged by Knox or Glencairn, but the people had been taught that these were the synagogues of Satan, in which 'Baal's shaven sort' had practised their abominations, and the deserted building came to be regarded not only with Tien dislike, but superstitions horror." In this way it is, no
doubt, more or less Knox's fault that the devoutest elder thinks no harm to come into the kirk he loves with his hat upon his head. We allow it and deplore.
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